At one point or another, every young lass contracts a stalker – or, over time, stalkers – of sorts. In my case, I was always thrilled. Thrilled to be noticed. And thrilled by the prospect of potential danger. Strengthening my confidence, albeit perhaps creepily, a stalker affirmed that I was indeed a desirable female, which was something extremely difficult for me to believe. As a girl growing up in the 80s, both under the shadow of the ultra-thin supermodel and alongside the absence of what makes a girl a sexy girl, being recognized as someone or something to be coveted always seemed entirely preposterous and was, therefore, my one true mission in life. Young, teenaged Brandy confused sex with favorable acceptance, but it was only ever a fleeting moment that never really confirmed anything. Unlike teenaged boys, however, stalkers took their time.
In the mid-90s, at the precious age of 21, I was pretending to be a super grown-up adult. I finally had it all together. It’s funny how time is relative. At any rate, nearly 30 years ago, 21-year-old me thought I had it all figured out.
Excuse me a minute, while I think back, shake my head, and fall off my old, dusty chair with laughter! Sorry ‘bout that.
Anyhow, I was working as a semi-avant garde hairdresser in a prestigious, super chic, London-based salon in Dallas, Texas. Uh… yeah. Why, again, would a super chic London-based hairdressing company own salons in Dallas, Texas? At the time that thought hadn’t crossed my mind. For a naïve little Dallasite, who grew up in sheltered suburbia and had never been anywhere or done anything, I had hit the big time! Looking back, it was quite comical. That is, rather than a serious business, my little salon was very much like living inside of Germany’s best TV show ever: Sprockets – remember Sprockets? – it was both bizarre yet exquisite. And, yeah, we actually said shit like that. We all took ourselves a little too seriously, and everyone, aside from myself, had a tiny bit of a nondescript fake European accent – fortunately, I didn’t go that far. I thought being British by association was dumb. Because it was. So, now, reimagine the previous, pretentious phrase with a seriously straight, almost emotionless, face and in an accent – it was both bizarre yet exquisite. Right? Idiots. Everything in the salon was black and white. Everyone wore weird fake glasses, leather vests, or dog collars. We all walked around as if the blaring, electronic soundtrack didn’t drive us bonkers, and, of course, everyone wore their hair in a way that no self-respecting, regular human, who did not work in a European hair salon, nor were a member of A Flock of Seagulls, would wear their hair. It was absurd. But I loved it.
Und now is zee time on Sprockets vin vee dance.
As you might imagine, a precious young thing, working in a Galleria Dallas hair salon could easily become the mark of many young professional men, who falsely assumed that any girl who received their attentions would feel extraordinarily lucky. And I’m told that men in their 20s are generally focused on one simple thing: sex. I need the sex. Where can I find the sex. How can I get the sex. Combine that with Dallas, and you get a bunch of overblown jerks – or would it be underblown; wanting to be blown? whatever – and, inevitably, sometimes stalkers. Nevertheless, I had my fair share of male clients who obviously thought that they were God’s great gift to women and that I was dying to go out with them, because they were the dream. They were not. I was not. And they were not. Of course, that didn’t stop me from going out. What? Was I looking to die an old shut-in before I even escaped my mid-20s? Regardless, I never let anyone pick me up at my apartment. And, unintentionally, I always made a hasty and ominous escape – interested in the experience; not interested in the dude.